alongside the babbling River Itchen,
in the shadow of St. Catherine Hill's contours,
a few stone throws from Junction 11 of the M3,
amidst scenery that inspired Keats and Trollope,
there shall you find England's oldest almshouse.
Pilgrims once met at this ancient place.
En route to Canterbury.
There to quaff of their ale and tell of their tall tales.
Crusaders would have spent their final nights
beneath these self-same stars,
and prayed in the Norman church at dawn
afore setting sail for the holy battlefields in the East.
Today, the resident Brothers,
on their way to Matins or weekly Pay Parade,
watch on from under their trencher hats
as we seek to hide our 21st Century trappings
beneath layers of
hesian and leather and wool
and tights and cowels and capes
and factory-bought greasepaint 101.
At 5:30pm, as regular as clockwork,
Evensong is carried gently
on the breeze from the nearby cathedral.
Except for Wednesdays.
